


no good on my own anymore

by consultingwives (westminsterabi)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (barely), Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Crushes, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, F/F, Femlock, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Rule 63, Sherlock-centric, Unrequited Love, am i salty, lol not really unrequited but we won't find that out for SEVEN FUCKING YEARS, post-ASiP, thirsty sherlock, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7624210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westminsterabi/pseuds/consultingwives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock maybe has a tiny crush on her brand-new flatmate who shot a man for her last night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no good on my own anymore

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my adorable girlfriend! :) (who also beta-ed) Title comes from Allison Weiss's cute pining song "I Was An Island".

It’s noon and I’ve just put on my goggles (the elastic needs replacing, better do that before I splash myself in the eyes with sulfuric acid) when John comes down from the bedroom upstairs. That’s going to be weird; living with another person. I haven’t done it since university, and even then, I had a single. The rooms on Montague Street were cramped—too cozy, practically windowless. But they were mine. And now here is this interloper, sharing my space.

 

This, well, this very attractive interloper. This _very_ attractive interloper, with her crew cut, her nervous demeanor that peels back occasionally when she leans on a door frame and runs her mouth, bitingly sarcastic. I’ve known her two days and I’ve already noticed these things (it’s my job to notice). But there’s something about John Watson, something special and utterly mesmerizing.

 

And she compliments me. She thinks I’m brilliant (she won’t think that if I lose my eyesight in a careless accident) and says so, every time she opens her mouth. She takes her notes and she looks at me like—well, I don’t know. Different than how anyone else has looked at me. Ever. Even Victoria. It’s not totally different. Maybe Victoria, with her hazel eyes, five-foot two on a good day (John I’d put at five-foot one), gazing up at me with that grin on her face, is the closest I’ve ever had.

 

But that’s been years. Here’s John, in front of me, hair sticking up in a hundred different directions and looking surprisingly unperturbed for someone who killed a man last night. In fact, looking downright calm and collected. She’s barefoot and her big toe on her right foot has a broken toenail. It’s sticking upwards, split in half, and it’s disgusting but I can’t tear my eyes away.

 

“Are you looking at my foot?”

 

“No.”

 

“You are.” She yawns loudly. “Do we have any eggs?”

 

“Fridge.” I have a big pair of dishwashing gloves on and I take one hand off the slide to point at it. Pointlessly. It’s right there. She sees it.

 

“Mm.” She runs a hand through her hair absentmindedly and looks inside. “Fuck. Are those eyeballs?” She pauses and thinks for a moment. “Weren’t they in the microwave yesterday?”

 

I shrug. I’m really not in the mood to talk about the exact locations of body parts with my new ~~extremely attractive~~ flatmate.

 

She starts rummaging and muttering to herself. “Eyeballs…thumbs…toenails…dead mice…pig blood (at least I hope that’s pig blood). Is there anything in this fridge that _isn’t_ a biohazard? Oh my god the eggs are so far back here.” She raises her voice. “So is this one of those situations where we share food or like, should I write my name on everything that’s mine?”

 

I’ve never had a flatmate. I don’t know how to respond to this question. I shrug.

 

“Ugh, fine. While I’m at it I’ll piss on your bed to claim my territory if that’s alright.”

 

Is she being sarcastic? That seems really socially unacceptable. “Um. That’s fine.”

 

She grunts and I hear one of the gas jets turn on, then soon the sound of a fork whisking eggs and the sizzle of butter on a pan. I make the mistake of glancing over ~~and she has a really cute arse.~~ (I noticed this last night.)

 

This culture is looking amazing, growing at an unprecedented rate in a dish with a pH of 5. But all I can think about is John’s frustrated little grunt at me. At one point I forget what I’m doing, go to check my phone, and spend five minutes on my blog before I remember why I actually opened it.

 

All I can think about is ~~John’s eyes~~ last night’s case, and “Moriarty”, whoever that is. Whoever they are. Whatever they are, maybe. Another thing is bothering me, ~~the fact that John saved me after knowing me for thirty-six hours~~ the cabbie’s motivation. Something seemed off and I still can’t figure out what it is. _Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator._ But there’s still something missing and even while I’m staring at this culture, wrinkling my nose at the smell of agar while I work out on paper how to splice a glowing gene into this bacteria, letting my mind wander and work on the problem, nothing comes to me.

 

“Please tell me you’re not working on anything dangerous.” John sits opposite me, chewing on scrambled eggs. “I’m eating, here.”

 

“I was working here first.”

 

“That’s true. But you’re also the one that roped me into living with you.”

 

I can feel my face grow hot. “Um, if you really—that is, if you feel like I coerced you, I mean. You don’t. You don’t. Um.”

 

Before I can complete that thought, John interrupts. “Are you kidding me? Last night was the most fun I think that I’ve ever had. Sorry, that was a joke.”  


“You killed a man last night.”

 

“I mean, that’s kind of part of the job, right?” Her mouth is full; I can see bits of yellow in-between words. For some reason it’s endearing. “Hanging out with you, well. I’m sure sometimes stuff like that happens. Not a huge loss to humanity, anyway.”

 

“Very true.” I’m still blushing and I look back down at the culture. Strictly speaking, I should have switched gloves between opening the vials of enzymes and splicing the gene into a plastid, but I’ve never been too sanitary about these things. It’s not like this strain is actually _dangerous._ I’d at the very least have warned John if that were the case. She’s eating right in front of my face.

 

Mutant bacteria that glow in the dark. What a metaphor for my own life—strange, luminescent, useless bacteria. Maybe that’s not a fully-formed thought.

 

“So, do you have a day job?” She’s making small talk.

 

I grit my teeth and use a micropipette I stole from Bart’s to deposit the sample in another petri dish that’s questionably clean. “No.”

 

“That’s, well. Lucky, I suppose. That you get to do what you love. And just that.”

 

“I mean, I do have to take the occasional case with a rich bastard to pay the rent.”

 

“Poor baby.”

 

I snort, and so does she. Soon she’s giggling into what’s left of her eggs, and I’m laughing into my petri dish.

 

“It does sound sort of awful, doesn’t it?”

 

“Just a little bit.” She grins at me. There’s a bit of egg on the corner of her mouth and when she smiles at me it moves up and down. “How often do those kinds of cases come around?”

 

“All the time. But they’re usually boring.”

 

“You could be rolling in it.”

 

“Hardly.”

 

“No, you really could. What do you need a flatmate for? Live in a damn penthouse. By yourself.”

 

Should I tell the truth? The truth is that Mycroft insisted. I don’t listen to everything she says but when I got kicked out of Montague Street she told me that I needed to find one, no consequences, just that I should. Not so much a rule as a recommendation, but I took it and threw out the suggestion to Mike, expecting nothing to come of it. Instead she brought me John.

 

_Instead she brought me John. Instead she brought me John insteadshebroughtmejohn._

 

This army doctor, this beautiful woman sitting in front of me chewing her eggs obnoxiously and asking about my cases, who last night called me brilliant and shot a man to save my life. I look at her and I’m amazed at the fact that she hasn’t decided to leave yet, that she’s eating eggs I don’t remember buying and acting as if _this is how flatmates act,_ shooting criminals for each other and saving each other’s’ lives and ~~admiring each-other’s arses~~ taking a genuine interest in each other’s careers. At least John’s interest sounds genuine. I’m not sure.

 

“And you? You must be looking for a job now. No one can afford London on an army pension.”

 

“Oh, I’ll look for something. I am running low on cash.”

 

“I’ll be happy to help you out while you look.”

 

“I don’t think I’ll need that. But thank you.” She’s smiling warmly at me and I miss with my pipette, dripping a solution of plastids on the table. It won’t start glowing, so Mrs Hudson doesn’t have to know.

 

I push my goggles up to my hair and take a good look at her. Army doctor. Recently invalidated home from Afghanistan, short on luck and money. Brother, gay, going through a divorce. Interested in? Women? Men? Who knows? Early riser, usually, but not today. Perhaps that’s a leftover habit from the military that she hasn’t quite shaken yet, or her natural tendency. ~~Adorable.~~ No driver’s licence. Recently rid herself of a psychosomatic limp.

 

I hope that she keeps coming on cases with me.

 

(Maybe I have a crush.)


End file.
